


Gunpowder and Gunmetal

by etothepii



Category: Nolanverse - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-30
Updated: 2008-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etothepii/pseuds/etothepii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker likes knives, but he likes guns <i>more</i>. Contains gunplay and masturbation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunpowder and Gunmetal

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Batman Kink Meme.

Shooting someone might not be very personal, but that’s not the _only_ reason the Joker prefers to kill with a knife. There’s a sensual, visceral thrill in slicing through skin and fat and muscle to reveal a person’s true nature. Knives are fun. He _likes_ knives.

But it’s _nothing_ compared to shooting a gun, feeling it kick in his hand, smelling the gunpowder, hearing the bang. _That_ always hits him like a truck, hits him like the _Batman_ , gets him two strokes from orgasm, so hard and wanting that... Well.

Who cares about plans anyways? Not him, that’s for sure. He’s not a plan sort of guy. And not _now_ , especially not now, because he’s got the gun in his hand and powder _on_ his hands and a bleeding corpse on the ground and he was supposed to, planning to, going to...

His cock strains against the inside of his pants, and he forgets everything else. His need makes him clumsy. He fumbles with the gun as he pops open the barrel, shakes out the extra bullets, little metal slugs that clinkclinkclink to the floor. One two three four. He’s still got number five in his palm, his palm that’s starting to sweat with anticipation, and he puts that one back, spins the barrel.

His heart’s pounding, he can hear it roaring, and all he can think is, _yes_. _Finally_. _It’s about time_.

The barrel of the gun, a lovely pistol that fits in his hand as perfectly as his cock does, more perfectly, is still hot when he presses it against the side of his face. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, breathes in the smoke and gunpowder and _anarchy_ , and he’s on his knees in a heartbeat.

His other hand goes between his legs, grabs himself and squeezes, _hard_ so it hurts, twists to get control of himself. _Not yet not yet make it good not yet._ Yeah. Yes. He has time, and he’s going to take his time, take a little _break_.  
  
He drags the gun over his lips, hums with pleasure as it blazes a trail of heat over his cheek, then pushes it into his mouth. He resists a little at first, pretending he doesn’t want it _he does he does_ , then gives in, lets it in. His head’s tilted up, just a bit, as if someone else is doing this to him, standing over him and shoving a gun down his throat, like he’s being _forced_. _Yes_.

The shaft is cold nearer the base, and the Joker knows what to do about _that_. He sucks, then moves his head back, lets it slide out of his mouth with a wet slurp. It’s wet, gleaming in the light, and he kisses the head. He wraps his lips around the tip and pokes his tongue into the muzzle.

It’s hot still, hotter than his mouth, and he can taste the bitterness of the powder. He fucks it with his tongue, sliding it in as far as it’ll go, cleaning the gun with his mouth until he tastes only metal and it’s only warm, the same temperature as the inside of his mouth.

But if there were someone else here, if it wasn’t just him and his hands, they wouldn’t be satisfied with that, no. They’d want more, they’d demand more. Who would it be this time? Who’d be on the other side of the gun, holding it in his mouth, forcing it in him, driving him madder than mad?

Not Batman, no matter how much he wishes otherwise. Batman’s fun, but he’s not _this_ kind of fun. He’s a real wet blanket, doesn’t understand the eroticism of fellating something that can blow your head off with just _one_ click. Doesn’t even use guns, and that’s a real shame, and one day the Joker’s gonna find him and catch him and _show_ him how good they are.

But Harvey, now Harvey was a man on the rise. Pretty and broken and oh, he’d had a _gun_ last time too. Held it to the Joker’s head and nearly shot him, and it’d been _good_. So good, and the Joker had been so happy that he’d come around, because that had _potential_. It was too bad he was dead, but then again, he doesn’t have to be dead _now_.

So Harvey-not-Harvey shoves the gun into his mouth, as far as it goes, until it hits the back of the Joker’s throat and he gags, chokes and suppresses a cough.

But that’s not enough, because Harvey’s full of so much _anger_ , so he pulls it out, does it again, again and again and again until it’s the only thing the Joker’s focused on, the warm, unyielding slide of metal into his mouth, bumping against his teeth, pushing his tongue away, nudging the back of his throat. His mouth hurts, it’s sore and tired from the rough treatment, but Harvey wouldn’t care.

 _Suck it_ , phantom Harvey demands and the Joker complies willingly.

The gun is warm now, as warm as flesh but not yielding, not soft at all, but he sucks on it anyways. He draws his tongue down its underside, lets his tongue slip between his lips to slide up the shaft of the barrel. His eyes are closed because he doesn’t need to open them; he knows what he’ll see, knows the gun as well as he knows his makeup and the scars on his face.

It’s fellatio, it’s cocksucking, but it feels so much _better_ , because there’s no person on the other end, no moans or hands to get in his way. It’s just him, the gun, and not-Harvey. It’s blissful silence interrupted only by the soft, greedy noises coming from his own throat and the shift of his knees on the floor as he twists and writhes because he wants to _come_.

He’s hard and still buttoned up in his pants, and it’s tight and painful and so _good_. He’s kneading at his cock, rough stabs of pleasure and pain and he wantswantswants release. Wants it so much. Wants it enough to _die_ for it.

There’s a loud click as he cocks the gun, and the Joker stills. His eye slit open, and he swallows around the barrel. _Do you feel lucky?_ Fake Harvey asks.

He doesn’t care.

The Joker grins, smiles wide until his scars stretch, and comes when he pulls the trigger.


End file.
